


Equilibrium

by Sigma



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: AlexandYassenarehavingadomestic, AlexandYassenareonabreak, Alexisabitgreyinthis, Andistonedeafreapologypresents, CouplestherapySCORPIAstyle, D/s, F/M, Off scene dub/con, SCORPIAAlex, alwaysagirlAlex!, yassenhasscrewedthepooch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-18
Updated: 2020-08-18
Packaged: 2021-03-06 06:35:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,719
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25979086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sigma/pseuds/Sigma
Summary: Yet another AU set vaguely (very vaguely) in Pongnosis' wonderful Devil 'verse.
Relationships: Alex Rider/Original Character(s), Yassen Gregorovich/Alex Rider
Comments: 12
Kudos: 42





	Equilibrium

**Author's Note:**

> _I really have *no* idea where this came from. I'm warning you, dear Reader, this is essentially the one shot of what Alex did when she and Yassen *were on a break!!!*. So 10k of introspection, irritation, and gallivanting from city to city at Scorpia's behest. Meanwhile, Yassen is being grumpy at home, and terrible at apologies......_

**Equilibrium**

_March- Stockholm_

The only sound in the room was the steady breathing of its three inhabitants, and the soft, almost inaudible scratch of the old fashioned fountain pen as the representative from Scorpia signed his name as a witness. Across the room from him, Alexandra stood poised, not a muscle shifting and watched every movement of the man's hand with predatory focus, hazel eyes opaque and unreadable.

After a moment that seemed to stretch to an age the representative put down his pen with a small smile and pushed up from the table, holding three copies of the document that he had just attached his signature to. He handed one to Alex, and Yassen watched as her hand closed convulsively around the paper, her white knuckles the only sign of the emotions that Yassen knew were raging behind that unreadable façade. The other he left on the table for Yassen, and the third copy was slipped into the portfolio the representative had brought with him to be taken for storage in Scorpia's records archive.

Then he turned so that he could see both of them and smiled. “Mr Gregorovich, Ms Rider, I believe that our business is now concluded.” He turned to Alexandra and nodded cordially. “Ms Rider - Orion, Scorpia confirms and witnesses that you have fulfilled all terms of your 7 year apprenticeship contract with Cossack. As such, as of today's date, you are free of all obligations to him, and are recognised by Scorpia as a fully qualified free agent and one that holds the same Master level qualifications in your chosen specialities as does Mr Gregorovich. As your exclusive contract with Scorpia expired two years ago, the Board now extends their congratulations as to your graduation, and hopes that you will be willing to entertain any assignment offers that they may choose to make, with a revised pricing schedule in line with your new status and position as a free agent.”

Alex nodded her head in polite acceptance of both the salutation, and the offer. “Thank you. Please thank the Board for their consideration, and confirm to them that I would be pleased to consider any offers of assignment they may wish to make that fit within the parameters that are held on my file.”

 _No children_  
_No terrorism  
Not in front of the families. _

Yassen had never been quite able to break her of the last traces of her inconvenient morality, even though he had seven years to try. 

The representative nodded, clearly pleased by her politic acceptance of Scorpia's offer and Yassen wondered distantly when the mouthy, erratic child he had taken 7 years ago had morphed into this tactful young woman with her unreadable eyes and inscrutable face. 

“Well then, I must be going. Orion,” the representative nodded politely, and then turned to Yassen where he was standing by the door, silent throughout this exchange. “Cossack.” And then he was gone, the door closed firmly behind his retreating form.

The silence he left in his wake had its own weight, and stretched on for seemingly endless minutes between them as Yassen looked at her, and she looked back, and for the first time since he could remember he couldn't read the expression on her face. Then she sighed, a deep, heavy sound, and carefully folded up the contract that she still held in her hand before she turned and disappeared into her room, leaving him standing by the door to their current accommodations as if he had been turned into stone, somehow unable to move.

She reappeared only a few moments later, dressed for travel, a small rucksack thrown over one shoulder, and the case to her sniper rifle in the other. She had packed in advance, he realised, with a sensation he hadn't felt for years, as though his stomach was dropping to his feet. It was sorrow, he realised abstractly. The anticipation of emotional pain, although none of it showed on his face.

She paused by the table and pulled something out of her pocket, something silver that clinked quietly when she placed it down on the hard surface. He glanced briefly at the object and his breath caught almost imperceptibly. It was the bracelet that he had locked onto her wrist when she turned 18, that he had forbidden her ever to remove, the constant reminder of his ownership of all that she was that she wore for those instances when she was outside their private quarters and could not wear the other symbol he favoured. Then his stomach dropped again as she pulled down the top of her t-shirt and with sure hands removed the remaining symbol of his ownership that he had placed around her neck himself when she was just 17 years old.

The well worn black leather collar dropped onto the table as though she was throwing away an anchor, the silver buckles gleaming softly. She glanced down momentarily at the restraint as she discarded it and then met his gaze again, brown eyes opaque.

“These are yours. I am not.”

_Not any more._

It floated between them, unsaid, but they both heard it as clearly as if it had been spoken out loud, and Yassen watched silently, unable to formulate a retort, as she re-shouldered her pack, and her rifle and ghosted past him to the exit. It wasn't until she had opened the door, and was about to pass through that he could bring himself to respond.

“Alexandra.” It was the same tone he had used with her in a thousand moments when he expected her absolute obedience, and despite everything she checked her departure for a second, and turned her head to look at him, her face that same inscrutable mask.

His voice was a low rasp, gravelly and ridden with emotion that perhaps only she could have heard. 

“Stay.”

For an interminable moment she looked at him and then she shook her head, a choppy negation.

“No.” 

And she was gone, the door closed firmly behind her as she left him, his collar, and everything it signified behind.

_April - Barcelona_

It was spring in Spain, and there were churros and chocolate, and an annoying corporate spy that needed to be removed from a situation. She took care of the latter, and went out to eat for the former, and then danced the night away in a club in Port Olimpic before she took a dark eyed barceloní to her bed, just because she could. 

_May – Moscow_

She wandered the streets around the Kremlin for days before she was able to make her mark, a junior officer who had too much information on Russia's involvement with the 2016 hack of the US elections, which Scorpia had facilitated. He had developed an unfortunate attack of conscience, combined with a gambling habit, that meant he was within days of approaching the CIA, and selling out both the Russian government and Scorpia. Neither entity would have been pleased about this, but Scorpia simply got there first. 

This time, there was a celebratory shot of vodka (only one, a voice whispered in her ear. A drunk assassin is a dead assassin). And for her evening meal Beef Stroganoff with ponchikis to finish. And then the waitress, a blond Slavic beauty with legs almost as long as her own, which ended up twined around her as they kissed, and then wrapped around her head as she explored the other woman's body. She learned that women were just as insistent as men when it came to the demands of the flesh, but far more willing to let pleasure itself be the endgame. She left once the other woman had fallen into an exhausted sleep, but paid for the room before she went, and left instructions for her partner to be served with a deluxe breakfast. There was no need to be rude.

_June -Hong Kong_

The first gift arrived in late June, when she was scoping out suitable options for the infiltration of a highly secure IT company. She picked up the flat parcel from the redirection service she used that discreetly forwarded her mail to her from the various secure post office boxes she rented in various cities in the world. Part of their service included the scanning of any deliveries for security risks, but she wasn't stupid enough to wholly trust anyone who wasn't herself so she had the flat box x-rayed and tested for explosive residue before she opened it. 

It was a necklace, a delicate series of gold links adorned with shimmering diamond chips, elegant and beautiful, and to her taste. There was no message, but simply a Saints card tucked in amongst the fragile strands. St Anna of Kashin, whose annual feast day was on 24 June, and who Yassen had picked for her as her patron Russian Saint, one more decision that she had had no choice in. Suddenly the necklace seemed far too like a collar and she closed the box with a decisive _snap_. 

Before she left, information successfully retrieved without the company even knowing it was missing and transferred to Scorpia, she handed the parcel and a slip of paper with an address on it to the Concierge of the hotel. “Please arrange for this to be delivered to this man at this address.”

“Of course Ma'am. Any message?”

She shook her head. “No. I don't think so. I've got nothing to say to him.”

_July – Bali_

Bali was the youngest son of a central Asian oligarch, who had made the mistake of thinking that the daughter of the head of a South Korean chaebol was fair game for his pleasures, despite the girl's protestations. Orion seduced him at a full moon beach party at Gili Trawangan, drawing him away into the darkness further along the beach with kisses and the promise of more, and then cutting his throat from behind as she whispered a greeting from the girl he had violated in his ear. She rolled his corpse into the ocean where the sharks were likely to get it, attracted by the scent of fresh blood, and went back to the party to dance under the full moon. It was one of the more satisfying jobs she had undertaken. 

Her entertainment that night was an Australian couple up for a good time, the male brunette and deliciously swarthy, the woman a rare natural redhead. She had started to understand what she really liked now, and mutually pleasurable conclusions were swiftly reached, before she left them sleeping and went back to dance the rest of the night away.

_August – Sydney_

The job in Sydney required a team, and happily she was able to source one of the Scorpia security teams she had worked with before. They were used to working with her, even without Cossack's oversight, as in the latter years of her contract Yassen had frequently sent her out to work independently. Accordingly she didn't have to deal with any macho bullshit, which she heartingly appreciated. At the end of the assignment, with the drug operation that Scorpia coveted suitably cowed and assimilated she was able to score them a bonus each, and they left her with suitable expressions of appreciation, and a request that she remember them the next time she needed to run a larger operation. 

Dinner that night was barramundi, and a slice of strawberry pavlova to finish. For a moment she felt a ghost at her shoulder, looking in disapproval at the plate of nutritionally deficient calories but she shrugged him off and defiantly enjoyed each mouthful. 

But the experience left her restless, her head unsettled, and she wandered the streets of the CBD, down to the harbour where she leant on the railings and just gazed out at the bridge, her mind full of static. _He_ could always tell when this happened, when her brain was just too full to stop, when dropping to her knees for him would be a relief, and he would use it, use _her_ , until everything disappeared and untangled and she could think again. But the memories were tainted by the other ones, the feel of the collar around her neck, the weight of the bracelet around her wrist, the ever present feel of being _trapped_ with no recourse for escape. 

But maybe, with someone else, without the collar, it would be different.

The thought wouldn't leave her and somehow a few hours later she found herself at the bar of the Sanctuary, one of Sydney's better known BDSM friendly spaces, watching the crowd, absorbing the atmosphere, attempting to fit what she was seeing into what she had experienced herself. It was very different. She ghosted from scene to scene, analysing the performers, but she grew more and more uneasy as she realised what she had shared with Yassen bore little to no resemblance to what she saw played out over and over in front of her. Her role had been to submit, or at least to appear to submit, and to please him, but there had been little reciprocity. He had never humiliated her, or hurt her badly, but their dynamic had been very firmly set. He demanded, and she obeyed. She had never felt entitled to stop him from doing anything he wanted, and while he had given her what she needed at times in order to keep a clear head that had been a secondary function. She belonged to him, just as much as his gun did, or any other valuable piece of equipment, and like any other asset he owned he used her, whether out in the field or for his personal indulgence. What she may have thought about it was incidental. 

Here there was constant checking in from Dom to Sub, a tangible channel of communication that ran both ways, with consent clearly paramount. The submissives that were wearing collars seemed more than happy to do, and in the scenes the submission was sought by both parties, the Dom assisting the Sub to reach their own fulfillment, even as they reached their own satisfaction. It was so foreign to her own experience that it left her feeling unsettled, and obscurely angry, but determined to find out exactly how everything she had experienced had been skewed.

_September - Berlin_

In Berlin it was a very rich older man who was responsible for the investment portfolio of a number of drug cartels who had decided to feather his own nest far more than the usual discreetly accepted percentage. She brushed past him in a crowd and he slapped at the insect bite that had suddenly appeared on his neck in irritation. He was dead from a heart attack an hour later. Alex lingered in the crowd around his recumbent form while the medics worked on him, and eavesdropped on the airwaves to confirm time of death in the ambulance, before visiting the morgue to make absolutely sure. Scorpia acknowledged the receipt of the email attaching photos of his body on the autopsy table with thanks, and she was released to play until the next time.

Berlin was clubbing, hedonism, black leather and nothing being out of bounds. It made it easy to find what she was looking for, and with its 24 hour party culture, it was simple to move from a straight club where she had danced the hours away on nothing more than water and a driving beat to the KitKat club, one of Berlin's more famous BDSM club where she wandered the labyrinth of connected rooms, watching and cataloging everything, from the sex in the swimming pool to the mock operating theatre. There was every facet of human sexuality on display to examine, but again what she found herself focusing in on was the dominant/submission dynamic, and eventually she found herself in a room where she had noted that couples and singles who wanted to play in that area congregated and made their own arrangements. 

After watching for a while from a table in a corner it became apparent that all that was really required to be approached was to lean on the bar for a while and wait. It didn't seem to matter what age you were, or what gender, or what weight, or even whether you fit a standard western idea of physical attractiveness. What mattered was how you projected yourself, and whether you were willing to play. But then that was in line with what she had read about the BDSM community and about kink in general, and also from what she had seen in the club in Sydney and in KitKat itself so far, people were generally far more accepting about other's bodies and looks than in normal “straight” society. 

She had wondered about how people could tell at a glance what the other person was looking for, but then she realised that some were wearing what was essentially an identification symbol, a piece of jewellery with a lock or key on it for a submissive, something that referenced a whip, or barbed wire for a dominant. But there were others who had no such obvious identification, which led to cautious approaches from prospective partners. But there was no resentment when there was rejection and that helped her to realise that she wanted to make the step from research and watching to actually talking to someone about their experience. Maybe then she could understand what Yassen had seen in her that had led him to think that putting her in his collar had been appropriate. Because there must have been something in her, some part of her that was actually submissive that he had been able to pick up on, as otherwise she would have to accept that he had done that to her just because he _could_ and the thought of that abuse of power, of her _trust_ , on his side made some part of her stomach twist, leaving her feeling uneasy, and just a little bit sick.

She shifted to the bar, and bought a bottled water, and waited, and as she had half way expected, after a short interval she started to attract attention. But it wasn't the attention she had expected. Instead of dominants coming over, she found to her bewilderment she was being cautiously approached by individuals adorned with either jewelry marking them as submissives, or with body language that was distinctly...well, submissive. She was polite to all of them, spoke briefly to some, but even with her fluency in German the noise of the club wasn't really conducive to an involved discussion, and her conversational partners were in the mood for play, not chat. Eventually, she found herself alone in the crowd, back against the bar, watching the scene, a little confused as to how things had played out.

She was engrossed enough that she hardly noticed the beautiful red head sidle up to her side, curves wrapped in tight black PVC and leather, except automatically as a possible threat, and quickly discarded as such. It was only when the woman actually turned to face her, one elbow resting on the bar that Alex's attention was drawn to her, so that she shifted so she could see the older woman's face.

 _“Darling,_ ” the other woman drawled in Bavarian accented German, clearly a native speaker. _“You're scaring the natives.”_

 _“What do you mean?”_ She found herself responding, more out of sheer curiosity than anything else. 

_“All those poor submissives coming up to you, so sweetly, and you are rejecting every single one. Tut, tut. Bad etiquette my dear.”_

Alex frowned, a little confused. _“But I was waiting for a Dom to approach **me.** ”_

The older woman looked at her quizzically. “ _ **You** were waiting for a Dom?”_

She nodded. 

_“But why? Where you looking for a lesson on technique? This isn't really the place for it you know. It's better to go to a private dungeon for that, and seek some one on one lessons.”_

Alex flushed a little, thankfully imperceptibly in the dim lighting of the club. _“No, I'm...I'm a sub.”_ It felt strange labelling herself as such out loud for the first time. And a little uncomfortable, like a shoe that didn't really fit and rubbed against the delicate skin of your heels. 

_“And I just wanted to see what it would be like to scene with someone else other than my ex-Dom.”_

The woman was staring at her now, an expression of pure confusion on her face. _“You're a Sub?”_

Alex nodded. It still seemed a little weird calling herself that, but perhaps she just had to keep saying it out loud and the raw edges would wear off.

 _“Right. And who told you that?”_ There was a sceptical tone to the other woman's voice that made Alex feel strangely defensive. What was wrong with labelling herself as a sub? Half of the club seemed to be happy to do it.

She hesitated. _“My Dom. My ex-Dom I should say. Why?”_

The older woman was outright scrutinising her now. _“And was this Dom your first Dom maybe? A lot older than you? Seemed to know exactly what he was talking about?”_

Alex swallowed, remembering the moment when Yassen had taken the collar out of its case for the first time and had explained to her about Dominants and Submissives and how she was his Sub. And how she had stared at him, not really believing he was serious until he took the leather and metal and buckled it close around her throat, until she felt the press of it every time she swallowed, like a weight on her shoulders pushing her down.

_“Yes.”_

The other woman pressed her lips together and looked briefly furious, before reaching out a cautious hand to press on Alex's arm. 

_“Sweetheart. You're not a Sub.”_

Alex shook her head vigorously, her stomach churning with the implications. _“But I must be. He always said that I was.”_

_“He was wrong. Whether it was deliberate or not, I do not know, but I've only been watching you for 10 minutes and even I can tell after only that short space of time that you are not a Sub.”_

She pulled her arm away from the other woman's gentle touch. _“Then what am I?”_

The redhead gave her a long, patient look. _“I think you are going to have to find that out for yourself. But I think I can help you. And I think after someone has been playing head games with you that you may need the assist.”_ She reached down and fiddled with the black leather garter wrapped around her fishnet clad leg, making Alex tense in automatic professional paranoia. But there was no weapon when the other woman straightened up, just a small circle of card with a motif and an email and a phone number. 

_“Here.”_ The Domme, because that was what she clearly was, offered the card to her and Alex found herself taking it automatically. _“I hold sessions at my own private space in the evenings. Email, and I will let you sit in with one of my sessions for free. I think it will help you to feel....less confused.”_

 _“To scene with you as a Sub?”_ That didn't quite make sense, considering what she had just stated about Alex clearly not being of that dynamic.

The other woman smiled ruefully, and shook her head. _“No dear. As a Domme.”_ She looked Alex up and down, assessingly, taking in the toned strength of her body, her height, and the sharp look in brown eyes. _“I think you might be surprised at how you like it.”_ She smiled at her younger compatriot. _“I hope to hear from you soon. But now,”_ she looked over to the corner of the room where a young man clad in just leather trousers and leather cuffs was hovering hopefully and beckoned, her red lips curving into a smile as he hurried over eagerly. _“I have entertainment to enjoy.”_

The next day Alex called the number and visited Ms Croix in her dungeon to watch a private scene. 

She ended up staying for two weeks, a far shorter, but in some ways, far more informative apprenticeship than her entire seven years with Yassen. She certainly left understanding far more about herself than she ever had before.

Berlin was where she learned to love the feel of a whip in her hand.

Berlin was a _revelation_. 

_October – Bogotá_

She'd taken out two targets in Medellin, both senior leaders of a drug cartel that Scorpia was being paid to undermine by a rival cartel, but it seemed sensible to limit her exposure to the anthill she'd just kicked over, so she made a expedient exit for Bogotá. 

But this time when she decided to settle her urges after supper she knew exactly what to do. She dressed carefully, sleek leather trousers and ankle boots that could double as a weapon and went out hunting.

She had learnt in her short apprenticeship with Ms Croix, that just as there was the underworld she had been thrown into when she was 14, there was another underworld that governed desires that weren't of the strictly vanilla flavour, and it was one she was already learning to swim in, like a great white shark cutting through the endless depths of the deep blue sea.

Those contacts that she was already starting to develop led her to an unassuming door in a middle class suburb of Bogotá, which led down to a whole new world to discover and conquer. Then there was a young Bogotano, doe eyed and compliant, who wanted nothing more than to drop to his knees for her, and whose mind slipped away so easily in submission under her careful hand.

She was staying away from blue eyed blondes because she was still so very, very angry. And although her two weeks with Ms Croix had been informative and instructive they had also been extremely intense as the other woman had been determined to push as much information and ethics into her young pupil's head as possible. And one of those things was that you never scened when angry with your partner or who they stood for. That kind of rage when your scene partner was placing their trust and their body in your control was not acceptable. 

So she was avoiding triggers, but that didn't stop her from taking care of the young man who came slinking up to her, so easily, with soft words, and harder blows, the caress of a whip across a straining back, the careful distribution of body weight suspended from cuffs, just almost too much but not quite, until she watched him dissolve into pieces in front of her with a deep, quiet satisfaction, and an absolute certainty that this was where she was meant to be. And as she had taken him apart, she put him back together again, just as carefully, held him, and reassured him and calmed him, all the things that had never been done to her, and then sent him off into the night smiling and loose limbed.

It was both sexual and not, but it left her a little....distracted, and when the beautiful brunette bartender at the club whispered a distinctly non scene invitation in her ear she was happy to follow the suggestion all the way home to the bartender's bed, where she was reminded once again that women could be just as demanding in bed (in a non-BDSM way) as men. She even stayed for breakfast, huevos pericos and hot chocolate served by her new friend in the morning and round two before her plane took her elsewhere. 

_November – New York_

The mission in New York was by its very nature discreet, as operating in a country like the US increased the risks of contract killing considerably (and the price of the contract reflected that) but she had been extremely extensively trained and so when a senior board member of a large oil corporation (who may have potentially been about to block a very hostile takeover) keeled over of an unexpected heart attack in the middle of a charity gala, no one seemed to suspect the waitress handing out champagne. Job done and thankfully the particular compound she had utilised was not one that was routinely checked for in standard autopsies in New York State so it might go down as natural causes after all.

And it was remarkable how many Wall Street men, the so called Masters of the Universe, wanted nothing more than give in to a power stronger than theirs, to beg, and plead and bleed for her until her arm was aching and that deep sense of down to the bone satisfaction was achieved. With every scene a little more of her rage bled out of her even if she was never angry at her scene partners specifically. But being able to use her new found skills was...therapeutic. And if it helped her reach a place where she didn't want to punch Yassen Gregorovich in the face the next time she met him, well.....she wasn't going to complain. 

_December – Stockholm, Oslo, Bergen, Helsinki, Reykjavík, Tromso_

She took a break for most of December, after a quick infiltration and information extract in South Africa, and instead spent most of the Christmas season drifting across the Nordics, picking up a smattering of Finish and building on the Swedish she had started a year or two ago by the simple aegis of deep immersion. In a region where there were a large number of remarkably attractive tall blondes she didn't stick out as she did elsewhere and she blended still further by keeping to various short term sub-lets rather than hotels. 

She played a bit too of course, she wouldn't want the leather of her whip to lose its suppleness due to under use, but apart from that she took her time to see all of the places she had dreamed about when she had felt at her most trapped. The Northern Lights in Norway, the craggy moonscapes of Iceland (and the amazing spas), the cold, clear brilliance of the Arctic circle. It was the first Christmas she had ever spent entirely on her own, as Yassen had always ensured that he at least checked in on her on that date every year they were bound together, but she found that she didn't really mind. She was sufficient to herself, although she admitted that she did feel a slight wistfulness on Christmas eve when she stood on the street in Stockholm and watched the candlelit processions of families make their winding way to the various churches. But that was gently put away by the cold clear air and the sound of choral singing hanging in the darkness. 

On the 27th December there was an unexpected knock on the outside door to her Airbnb. Frowning at the interruption to her scheduled programming of reading and naps she checked the security cameras to see a smartly besuited man holding a box and looking slightly uncomfortable. 

_“Yes?”_ she called through the intercom in Swedish, her grasp of which had become considerably more comprehensive over the last few weeks as she explored the country.

_“Hello, is that Ms Bolton? I am here from Lo Jewelry. We have been instructed to deliver a commission to you.”_

She sighed. She really should have taken the time to recreate all of her aliases after leaving her contract. But now that small moment of inertia was coming back to haunt her. 

_“I'm sorry, but I didn't order anything.”_

Now the flunky looked distinctly agitated. _“Well we had very strict instructions to make sure you received this.”_

She bet they did. When Yassen was determined to make things happen he could be legitimately terrifying. And it wasn't fair to subject civilians to his wrath just because she didn't want to look at whatever he wanted her to have. _“Fine,”_ she bit out. _“Give me a minute.”_

After making sure that her gun was in an easily accessible central back holster and putting on some shoes she slipped downstairs to cautiously open the door. The older gentleman on the other side of it looked excessively relieved, so yes, Yassen had probably been as terrifying as she expected.

He handed her the box and made to leave, but she stopped him with a hand on his arm. _“Wait.”_

_“What? Madam, we were only required to complete and deliver the commission, not anything more.”_

She gave him a steady look. _“I haven't decided if I'm accepting it yet.”_

At her comment he looked distinctly agitated, but she reassured him. _“If I don't accept it, you can tell your client that I rejected it. And I promise that if I do refuse to accept it, it will be nothing to do with the quality of your work, and you can tell your client I said that. Rather it will be due to,”_ she hesitated, unsure how much she wanted to say in front of a man who would undoubtedly report back to his “client”. _“The implications of accepting such a gift.”_

The jeweller's representative abruptly relaxed. This was clearly something he had dealt with before, and he regarded her almost avuncularly. _“I see.”_ Clearly he understood why a woman might not want to accept an expensive surprise present when she was trying to avoid the creation of.....expectation. 

She gave the representative a small smile and looked at the polished wooden box that he had handed her, pulling off the ribbon tying it closed, flicking open the catch and pushing the hinged lid open.

Her erstwhile Master had sent her a cascade of thin gold and silver bangles, six of them, each one unique in its design and studded with a different gem stone, but also meant to be worn together as a set, so each metal, gemstone and setting was complementary to the others. She had never seen anything like the designs so she would have assumed that they were one of a kind, even if the note on the inside of the wooden case from the jewellers hadn't already informed her of that. 

The jewellery was beautiful, delicate and elegant, but still unique and contemporary and perfectly to her taste. But still, all she could see when she looked at them was the silver bangle he had literally locked around her wrist when she had turned 18 and how she used to worry at it when she was on her own, knowing that there would be hell to pay if she managed to remove it, but desperate to do so anyway. These bracelets were lovely, and eminently removable, but when she looked at them, all she saw were chains. If he could send her this he still clearly didn't understand why she had left. Or perhaps he just thought that her concerns were immaterial. Which ever one it was, she didn't care as it didn't change her position.

She closed the box with a decisive click and handed it back to the representative, who took it with a faintly anxious expression. _“They are beautiful, truly. But I will not be accepting the gift.”_ She hesitated. _“Tell him, if he asks, that chains are still chains, even if they are beautiful. And that I am not so easily bought.”_

And with a polite nod, she stepped back from the doorstep and closed the door. Let him do with that as he would, although she did hope that he didn't take out his frustrations on the jeweller. It wasn't their fault that their client was a tone deaf idiot when it came to basic human interactions.

_January – Tokyo_

In Japan it was industrial espionage for once, rather than a removal. It involved days and nights of wandering Kabukichō, and eventually led to her brief employment at a hostess bar in order to get close to the target. She persuaded him to accompany her to a love hotel and served him saki heavily laced with a rohypnol derived sedative, before she stole his security pass to the offices of the target firm and cloned it. It was easy to make it look as though he had passed out from the booze, and usefully, he wouldn't remember anything about the previous 12 hours at all. 

The next night she slipped into the target offices like a ghost, all of the security systems opening without protest to the bona fides of a man who didn't even realise his pass had ever gone missing. The requested R&D information was downloaded from the servers within minutes, and only a few hours later she was handing off the encrypted flash drive holding the information to her Scorpia contact. 

He was someone she had dealt with before, when she was still under contract, and she saw his eyes skim up and down her body appreciatively, in a way that he would never have dared had Cossack still been looming (either literally or metaphorically) over her shoulder. 

_“Orion. You look..well. So is it true that you are now a solo operator?”_ She inwardly rolled her eyes at his obviousness. As if that made an difference as to whether she would ever sleep with him or not.

_“Yes, it's true.”_

_“Well! Congratulations! I didn't think Cossack would ever be willing to let you go.”_

Before he could blink, there was a knife hovering a few centimetres away from his throat and a smile that had nothing to it of humour at the other end of the blade. _“My contract was up. He didn't have a choice in the matter.”_

He backed off, suddenly sweating as his animal hind brain (which had a far better survival sense than his conscious brain) registered the expression on her face and went into meltdown. _“Of course, of course. Now we have confirmed transfer of your payment, and Scorpia thanks you for your service.”_

She gave him an unreadable look, but at least the knife disappeared, and a few moments later she did as well, blending seamlessly into the Tokyo crowds in a way a blonde gaijin should not be able to, leaving him taking deep breaths to try and regulate his heartbeat. He'd forgotten how much he hated dealing with Malagosto graduates, even the gorgeous ones. Fucking insane, the lot of them. 

For Alex, once she had shaken off the irritation of dealing with yet another Scorpia flunky idiot, Tokyo was an opportunity to expand her education in other areas. When she had known that she would be in Japan for some time she had accessed that other underground network she was part of, and she was determined that by the time she left, she would have added another skill set to her ever growing more esoteric selection, that of Nawashi, rope master. 

After all, that was one thing Yassen had taught her that was true, an assassin that stopped learning was soon a very dead assassin. He may not have specifically meant learning erotic Japanese bondage, but, she mentally shrugged, variety, after all, was the spice of life. 

_February - Paris_

Paris was...messy. She had been brought in as external security for a less than legitimate pharma company, to cover the transition from external ownership to Scorpia control. But unlike her solo assignments to this point, she was secondary, the primary agent being a much older Malagosto graduate, one of the more workhorse middle management level of Scorpia employees, but who had previous experience with the company. Which unfortunately meant he was in charge. And he was a classic misogynist, automatically equating the ownership of a vagina with the status of _lesser_. And she hadn't been lesser to anyone other than Yassen and the Executive Board since she was 14 years old, and wasn't about to start now. Plus, to be frank, he was an idiot. She genuinely wondered on a daily basis how he had managed to survive in Scorpia for as long as he had. If he had been required to work with Cossack the other assassin would have cut his losses and shot him in the head before the third day. 

And while she didn't have that option, some days she cursed that Cossack had at least trained _her_ to relentless competence as she spent most of the operation cleaning up her primary's mistakes. It all came to a head when her “superior” fucked up so comprehensively when she was dealing with another issue that she was forced to essentially stage a coup to mitigate the disaster he had left. And while she managed to rehabilitate the mission to the extent that the transfer went through without any further fuck ups, the whole thing became annoyingly political, in that she had to justify her actions several levels up the chain of command. 

While she didn't have any genuine concerns that the debacle would land on her head, as there were far too many witnesses to the contrary and she had also maintained an immaculate paper trail communicating her concerns up the chain throughout the mission, the whole thing became annoyingly political, and she frequently found herself missing Yassen's presence with a wistful intensity. He hated the political aspects of his interactions with Scorpia as well, but he was adept at the necessary maneuvering, and being his apprentice had meant that he had always cast that protective shadow over her, which ensured she had avoided the worst of the political bullshit throughout her training. But she didn't have that luxury now.

But, musing in her hotel room, post her final report, even with the satisfaction of Scorpia's gratitude for her skillful rescuing of the fiasco landing in her bank account, she was struck with the realisation that it wasn't just his skill with politics she missed. It was the surety of having someone competent at her back that she could trust to undertake his part of a mission to a level that meant she didn't have worry about the details. Of being able to rely on someone in the field. Being on her own was exhilarating, but also exhausting. 

And it helped that her time away from him, nearly a year now, had managed to mellow her rage somewhat. She was still angry with him, but it was less punch-him-in-the-face angry, and more kick him in the balls angry. So. Progress. 

As such, when yet another box tracked her down on her birthday in the small hotel in the 6th arrondissement she accepted it with a wry smile, and this time allowed the courier to leave without dissent. 

She didn't know what to accept when she opened the box, larger than the others this time, but when she saw what was inside her smile widened. Perhaps he was finally getting the point after all.

He had sent her knives. To be exact a set of five elegant, deadly daggers, that she picked up in turn and examined carefully. One was clearly a hair stiletto, with no cross bar and a hilt of silver and black, subtly embedded with small crystals that would sparkle in the light and disguise the slender, deadly blade hidden within the black sheath that made up the rest of the weapon. She drew it carefully, the steel gleaming and razor sharp when she tested it gingerly with a finger. It was a lovely, lethal thing. Delicate but useful. The other four pieces were throwing knives, flat and again, lacking cross bars. Their hilts and sheaths were black, but there was a silver inlay that criss-crossed the black leather of the sheaths. When she examined it closely she realised it was a pattern of vines and thorns, carefully wrapping around each weapon, a lovely, slightly edged pattern, but that the knives themselves within the sheaths were flawlessly sharp and completely lacking in any distinguishing features or makers mark that could be traced.

There was also an accompanying bag to the box. Curious she opened it as well and found two soft black leather thigh sheaths, the kind that could be put on under a dress, for the throwing knives. Her eyes softened, the rest of her rage starting to seep away. She had always muttered to herself whenever an operation required her to wear a dress that there was nowhere for her to hide a weapon and he had clearly remembered.

The whole package was a gift of respect, given by one seasoned professional to another. It was an overt recognition of another's skill, every piece still beautiful in its own way, but useful. Not ornamental and more importantly, in no way a gilded chain around her throat or wrist.

She switched back to the knives and ran a gentle finger over the set, feeling the engraving catch against her skin and then her attention was caught by a corner of white card stock peeking out from underneath the black velvet covering the foam the knives were secured into. When she pulled at it carefully she realised it was a small note card, with something inscribed on it in familiar slanting copperplate. For a moment she hesitated, not even sure if she wanted to look at what he'd written, and then she chastised herself. She'd never been a coward, and she wasn't about to start now. 

It was just a few words, flowing across the white gloss of the cardboard, unsigned, although she knew she'd recognise his handwriting anywhere, but her fingers closed convulsively around the card as she read and her heart suddenly ached.

_Alexandra._

_Come home_.

\-----------

Five days later she sent an email to one of his monitored anonymous email accounts. It simply said, _How?_

He responded within minutes, almost as though he had been waiting for her, and attached a word document. She clicked on it with her heart in her mouth and read the title scrolled across the top;

_Partnership agreement between Yassen Gregorovich and Alexandra Katherine Rider_

As she scrolled down the page, picking out phrases _“50% profit share”, “full partnership status”,“no job taken without mutual consent”, “veto power”_ she found herself smiling. It might not be enforceable in a court of law, but it would be enforceable between them. So perhaps this could work after all. 

But there was still one thing to settle. 

_March - Florence_

“Alexandra. Thank you agreeing to meet with me.”

She nodded. “Yassen,” and slipped into the chair the waiter pulled out for her, ignoring the young Italian man's admiring looks. Not that Yassen could blame the boy. Even after only a year away from him, during which he had been updated by the regular surveillance photos he had commissioned, he had almost forgotten how vibrantly beautiful she was in person. And the time as a solo operative had clearly been good to her. He had of course received copies of her reports from his contacts at Scorpia, but photos and words were not the same as seeing her in the flesh. There was a fierce vitality to her now that in retrospect he recognised had been absent in the last few years of their association. She was clearly stronger than when she had walked away from him, more settled in herself, more confident. In other words, he realised with a pang, she had thrived on her own. She didn't need him. 

But he let none of what he was thinking show on his face.

“Coffee?”

“Please.”

The next few minutes passed in the normal minutiae of ordering refreshments and waiting until the waiter discreetly withdrew out of earshot. Then Yassen gave her a moment to sip her drink before he spoke.

“I know we have been negotiating the possibility over email. But have you come to a decision Alexandra? Will you move forward as my partner as we have discussed?” He kept his voice as steady as he could, but he hoped his request didn't sound as close to a plea to her as it did to him.

She didn't say anything for a moment, just drank her latte and watched him with an unreadable expression. Then she seemed to come to some form of a decision, and put her cup down on its saucer with a decisive clink. 

“I'm prepared to work with you on the basis that certain conditions are understood between us. I will be your partner as per the arrangements we have already discussed. But,” she fixed him with cool brown eyes, all of her body language radiating exactly how much she meant what she was saying. “Our relationship will be professional, unless I indicate that I wish this to change. And I will _never_ wear a collar for you again. You should never have put one on me in the first place.” 

He shifted almost infinitesimally in place as the truth of what she was saying hit home. The collar had been a.....mistake. An attempt to bind her even closer to him so that she was never able to leave, even when the contract expired. She was a burning, fierce thing, and he needed her to stay, so he tried to train her to the leash. He should have known it wouldn't work. But he couldn't prevent himself from trying. And now he had to try to justify the unjustifiable. 

“I had a right to do whatever I pleased with you. You _signed a contract_ giving me that right,” he reminded her coolly, locking away whatever he was feeling behind that infuriating lack of expression that she had come to hate over their years together. It was Yassen at his most detached, and frequently at his most obnoxious. For the first time in their conversation her veneer of detachment cracked and she lent forward in her chair and hissed. 

“I was _14!”_ She sucked in a breath and then exhaled slowly and settled back into her chair, visibly focusing on restoring her equilibrium. “I was 14,” she repeated, her tone flat. “I didn't know anything about anything. You were meant to _protect_ me. Even from yourself. That was in the contract too.”

He returned her stare impassively. “I did. Why do you think I didn't touch you until you were 17?”

She shrugged, irritation very clear in her body language, to his disapproval. He had taught her better than to be so obvious with her emotions. “Because despite everything else, you're not a pedophile,” she snarked at him sarcastically.

He gave her the look she deserved for the lack of respect in that comment, one that when she was his apprentice would have been a precursor to some other form of response that she wouldn't have enjoyed at all. She merely stared back at him impassively, unimpressed with what, he realised, was now an empty threat. This new dynamic of theirs was going to take him some time to get used to.

“No.” He retorted dryly. “Because 17 was the latest I could wait without Scorpia taking the matter of your training in that area into their own hands.”

She stilled in her chair as he continued. “It was made clear to me, starting from when you graduated Malagosto at 15, and even more heavily once you were past your 16th birthday, that if I could not demonstrate that you were being adequately trained in relation to seduction work, you would be enrolled on the next course being run by the Swallows at Malagosto, even if it was against my wishes.”

He could see the glimmer of confusion in her eyes as she considered this new information for a moment before she responded. 

“But _you_ were my Master. I was your Apprentice. The contract was between the two of _us_ , not between us and Scorpia.”

He tilted his head in acknowledgment. “But it was signed under the aegis of Scorpia, and administered by them. And you had also signed your own contract with them for 5 years of operational services. So they felt they were entitled to ensure that you, as a Scorpia operative, were trained in those areas where they thought you could be of use.” He looked at her and watched the thoughts dance through her eyes behind the cool mask of her expression. He had missed this, seeing her agile mind in action. Amongst other things.

“So it was you, or them.”

He inclined his head in agreement. “Yes.”

They sat in silence for a moment as she digested this new information. Yassen took a slow sip from his coffee, and absent-mindedly watched the crowds of tourists bustle across the plaza below. Florence was always so busy, even in the early spring. After a few minutes she stirred and his focus moved back to her, inexorably. 

“You have seldom lied to me, Yassen, so I will accept that may be true.” She gave him a hard look. “Although I will double check with other sources.” He shrugged, unruffled. After all of his training he would have been disappointed if she didn't. She leaned forward again. “I can understand why you felt that you were the better option than the Swallow course to cover the seduction element of my training. But what I cannot understand, _Cossack_ , is why you didn't tell me this at the time. It would have made things a great deal easier.”

He raised a querying eyebrow at her. “Would it?” There was a wealth of scepticism in the question.

“Yes,” she almost snarled. “All I knew was that I turned 17, and suddenly you, my mentor, the person I trusted above everyone else in the world, turned on me in an area I should have been able to trust you the most. You _hurt_ me, Yassen. I thought it was just another point you were proving to me about how absolutely you owned everything about me. If I had known that you didn't really have a choice,” she stopped, took another breath, tried to maintain control. “If I had known that what you were doing was the better of two bad options.” She exhaled sharply. “Yes, it would have made a difference.”

He looked at her, the recollection of the pain she had clearly suffered, the pain that he had caused, still so clear in her expression, and felt a pang of almost foreign remorse. She always had been his weak point. But he hadn't realised how badly this had affected her at the time, probably because by the time she was 17 she had become a master at hiding what she was feeling from him. Apart from tears of pure physical pain he'd never seen her cry, not once in their 7 years together. “Then,” he hesitated before continuing, but if there ever was a time when it was necessary to re-calibrate their dynamic it was now. “I am sorry. I should have explained to you the reasoning behind my actions at the time.”

For a second she looked a little stunned, which was understandable. He couldn't remember the last time he had apologised to anyone and certainly not to her. But she recovered quickly. “Yes,” she murmured coolly, “you should have.” She shifted in her chair again, fixing him with that dark intent stare, still aggressive. “But all of that, everything you have said, it still doesn't excuse the collar.”

He could feel his own hackles raising defensively at the truth in her words and struck out preemptively in response. “You were mine to do with as I wished,” he noted, arrogance in every line of his body language. “And I wished to have you wear my collar.” 

She snorted in disgust at his paper thin justification. “I see. You have just finished explaining to me as to why you took me into your bed as a 17 year old to protect me from a worse option, and then you use _that?_ ” She shook her head. “No, I don't think so.” She glared at him, but he just looked back at her expressionlessly.

“You see, I've given this some thought while I've been on my own. I decided that if I was to understand why you wanted to collar me, like I was your _pet,_ ” there was a edge to her voice now, completely alien to how she usually spoke, and it was that almost more than anything else she could have said that made him realised how much she had truly hated the leather and silver accessory he had buckled around her neck. “I needed to educate myself. So I did.” She smiled thinly. “I went to BDSM clubs, I researched the topic, I spoke to both dominants and submissives about their dynamic, and about collaring. And do you know what I found?” She looked at him, but he didn't react. “Collaring and the wearing of a collar, is meant to be an expression of commitment, and affection by _both_ parties. It's fifty, fifty as whether it is offered by a dominant to their submissive or whether the submissive makes it clear that to be collared is what they want, but what is not done, is for a dominant to collar anyone who does not consent. And doubly to collar someone who is not a submissive at all. That, everyone agrees, is abuse.”

He didn't say anything, but his eyes as he watched her were wary.

“And I know you Yassen. You never do _anything_ without preparation. So you would have known what putting a collar on me meant. And you would have known that there was no way I could actually consent to it, not at 17, not when you had all that power over me. So what were you playing at?” Her eyes as she looked at him were angry, but hurt as well and he felt the weight of her accusation. “And don't tell me it was to protect me from Scorpia because that's bullshit. They wouldn't have cared about that. No. I think that it was all you, for some fucked up reason of your own. And you knew everything about me, and I wasn't that good about covering up how much I hated wearing that thing. So you must have known.”

He had, that was the issue. He had felt it, the rigidity in her frame every time he buckled the leather close around her throat, the increase in her pulse, the way her fingers plucked at the buckles when she thought he wasn't watching. And she was right about her submission as well. He had trained in BDSM, as it was useful for jobs, had played both the submissive and the dominant, although his natural dynamic was distinctly dominant. So he could tell the difference between the genuine willingness to please of a submissive, the ability to slip into that mindset, from the reluctant acquiescence that Alex had displayed when he had pushed the role on her, the rigid obedience that never softened into joy. Alex was far too naturally dominant for the position he had tried to mould her into, and she had never truly given in to him, despite his best efforts. The only way he could have made her that way would have been if he had broken her into pieces and then rebuilt her in the image he desired, like Pygmalion. But by doing so he would have destroyed everything that made her _Alex_ , and that was not something he was willing to do. 

So instead he had settled on this half-formed thing, a parody of what he really wanted, not so much her submission, as her loyalty. To him the collar had been a failed attempt to make it impossible for her to leave him, a way to bind her to him until she became so conditioned to being owned that she would never consider any other scenario. Instead he had watched bleakly as it backfired, as she fought against it more and more as she grew older, a captive thing snarling against the bars that contained it, a bird of prey straining against her jesses. He should have known better. A Rider was not built to be caged. It was why he hadn't been surprised when she left him. He had known it was inevitable. 

“Yes. I knew.”

“Then why did you do it?”

He couldn't admit it to her, couldn't allow the level of vulnerability explicit in explaining how he had been trying to make sure she never left him. So instead, he simply shrugged, compromising by acknowledging the righteousness of her point, but failing to provide her with any explanation as to his true motivations. 

“It was a mistake on my part. I should not have done it. You were never suited to wear a collar.” The admission was all he could give her, and far more than he would have given anyone else, and after a moment where he wasn't sure if she was going to lunge across the table at him in public she pulled herself back, and settled. 

“Yes. It was. You took something from me that you didn't have the right to take.” She caught the flicker of his expression and narrowed her eyes at him. “Yes, I know you that had the contractual right. But it was still wrong, Yassen, and I think you know that.”

He looked back at her silently, neither confirming or denying her accusation. But the lack of rebuttal on his part was telling. 

“And it has arguably left our relationship permanently affected. How can we be partners when I have no guarantee that you won't just default to treating me as you did before?”

“I wouldn't. You are no longer my Apprentice. Our relationship now is one of equals.”

She inclined her head slowly, acknowledging the possibility, but still a little doubtful. “Perhaps. But in both of our heads is the image of me kneeling at your feet, with your fingers wrapped around that collar. How can we develop an equal working relationship after that? Where do we find our equilibrium?”

He eyed her studiously calm expression, inwardly suspicious. A calm Rider was often simply a symptom of a storm about to break and she had clearly been giving the dynamic she had mentioned some thought. It would be sensible to be wary.

“You wouldn't have agreed to meet me if you thought this was an insurmountable obstacle,” he observed carefully.

She smiled, just a little. “No,” she confirmed, now worryingly serene. “I think I have come up with a solution that I can live with.” She leaned forward again, brown eyes fixed on him, a glint in them of dark amusement. “If you want me to come back, there is one last thing I need.......”

\------------------------------------

When the email eventually came back from him it contained only one word.

_Yes._

_April - Stockholm_

She checked that she had everything she needed, and satisfied, stepped out into the dimly lit space of the living room of the suite. 

He was waiting for her, stripped to the waist, the low light catching on the outline of wiry muscle and scarred skin, his blue eyes dark and unreadable. She padded over to him, and put the things she had brought down on the table with a soft clink of metal and leather. He carefully didn't look, although she could feel his desire to. But he kept his eyes on her as she approached, and then at the last minute dropped his gaze down, breaking eye contact. She reached out, very sure, and cupped one slightly stubbled cheek in her hand, thumb brushing over his bottom lip so that his mouth opened, just a little, for her.

“Kneel,” she told him gently, with the absolute certainty of being obeyed, and watched with calm satisfaction as he dropped to his knees before her, eyes on the floor at her feet. 

She wound a hand in his hair and used it tug his head back so she could see his expression, her other hand holding his face where she wanted it. Just as she wanted it. His neck strained under the pressure of her grip, the long column pale in the low light. He would look good in a collar, she mused. Perhaps she should see about that. 

“Good boy. Now we can begin.”

_**Finis.** _

**Author's Note:**

> _*Hides* But please review_


End file.
